Kzine Issue 16

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  * * *

  Ansel had an arm around Marie and was directing her toward a bench when an intense, rumbling buzz shook the earth beneath his feet. The sound came from behind, where he’d been standing with Lavinia. He let go of Marie and spun around, fully expecting to see a fallen hive explode into a swarm of angry bees.

  What he saw was just one massive bee. It was a queen, six feet long, reclining on the grass with a pile of volleyball-sized eggs at its end.

  “What?” it said to him.

  He blinked.

  “What are you staring at?” it asked. It sounded like a buzzy version of Lavinia Hart.

  “Mr. Evans,” it said. “Come here please.”

  He had no choice but to fly toward it—her, and almost tumbled out of the air in shock at his sudden flight ability. He landed at her feet with a bump.

  The queen bee twitched her antennae and let another egg slip from her rear. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I—” Ansel clamped his mandibles shut at his own buzzy voice. Something fluttered behind him, and he twisted around to find new, nearly transparent wings on his back. He jumped again and gasped, wrapping yellow, multi-jointed legs around his hard, black chest. Dazed, he tapped on his exoskeleton while curling down to look at the black and yellow stripes of his firm, oval abdomen.

  “Mr. Evans,” buzzed Ms. Hart, “if you are not here to sting me to death, destroy my hive, and carry away my eggs to feed your young, then why are you looking at me like that?” Another glistening egg slid from her abdomen and rolled down the side of the pile into the grass.

  “P—pardon?”

  “I said, you don’t look well. Do you have heatstroke?”

  He opened his mandibles and looked away, confused and embarrassed by the birthing taking place next to the picnic tables. That woman Marie had been acting strangely too—maybe there was something in the air. An ill-timed spraying of pesticide, perhaps? Toxic pollen? He looked around for the woman with the toddler, desperate to find out if she was also having hallucinations. But he could no longer tell her apart from anyone else.

  Everyone around him had become a three-foot-tall bee. They walked upright, scraping pollen off their legs into wax bowls, drinking nectar from flower-shaped cups, placing their pupae on swings and pushing them high into the air. He shuddered and hugged his slender waist.

  His slender waist…

  He was a wasp, the utmost enemy of bees—in a whole picnic full of them!

  “Mr. Evans,” the queen demanded, “are you not feeling well?”

  He turned to face the queen. Another egg slipped free of her body. He looked down and said, “I don’t believe I am, Ms. Hart. I believe I should go home.”

  “Then do so, and take care of yourself this weekend. We need you bright and early Monday morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Ansel, and after an awkward glance around, he fluttered his wings and took off.

  He was bewildered. It actually worked; he was flying! He flew higher and higher until all the bees at the picnic looked as small as bees should actually be. He swooped and whirled with the wind, frightened, incredulous—and exhilarated!

  But he had no idea how long this hallucination would last. He had a horrible thought of turning back into himself halfway home and tumbling down through the roof of someone’s house.

  So, in his eminently practical way, he dove back toward his Prius and drove home.

  * * *

  Droplets rained down Marie’s back as she released a breath through her blowhole. She clutched honeypot-Bobby Jr., hoping Mr. Evans had gone away. He was a little hard to track now that he’d turned into a snake. Grass grew up around him as he slithered about; thick, green blades sprouting through gravel, dirt—even asphalt—to cloak his winding form, then disappearing again as he passed. In fact, she only knew there was a snake in the roving patch of grass because he had risen out of it to help her. After a moment of abject terror, she had recognized the snake as Mr. Evans from the hollow, dutiful manner in which he had escorted her to her chair.

  He’d slunk off, and she’d tried to calm down. But she was still a whale. And her husband was still a sugarbear who was upset that his wife refused to eat the plate of krill he’d brought her.

  A little yellow butterfly flapped up to the family and asked Sweetpea if she wanted to play. The peapod bent in Marie’s direction, and she said “Yes, baby, go ahead.” Her daughter leapt up and tried to hop after the butterfly, but it flitted and floated far above her. Sweetpea stopped and bent down, then jumped as high as she could. As she jumped, she turned into a little green butterfly with purple spots on its wings. She and the yellow butterfly tumbled over one another in dizzying circles before fluttering toward a larger cloud of butterflies.

  Marie’s baleen crinkled as she smiled after her daughter.

  Sugarbear stood up and took the honeypot out of her arms. “Come on, little man,” he said. “Let’s go see what this sandbox is all about!”

  As Bobby Jr. rolled around in the pit, Marie wondered how they’d get all the sand out of his sticky pot once they got home. But of course that was just an idle thought, she insisted to herself, since this was all a temporary hallucination.

  Marie wondered if maybe the heat was making her see things. She rose and tiptoed precariously on the flukes of her tail to a folding chair in the shade, breathing a sigh of relief when it didn’t crack under her weight. She flipped her tail up and down, waiting for everything to go back to normal; but the more she looked around, the more she realized it really wasn’t that different. Sleek young stallions from Sales pranced around the HR intern, a leggy gazelle. Ornery old hens sat to the side, clucking amongst themselves about how short shorts had gotten nowadays; and the former-football-player VP of Marketing, a spiral ham, chucked a football to I.T., who looked to her like a circuitboard. That last one disappointed her a bit: if she were going to have hallucinations, couldn’t they at least be a little more original?

  Maybe that was her problem. Maybe her ideas weren’t outside-the-box enough to get promoted. Lord knows she’d applied for enough jobs higher up at Haverton. She was plenty capable, even if she wasn’t the young, aggressive type Ansel and Lavinia favored. But all those times she thought she was contributing in all-staff meetings, maybe they saw just another old hen clucking from the sidelines.

  The roving cloud of butterflies flitted closer to the picnic tables. Marie’s little green Sweetpea tumbled to the ground, hopped up to her and asked, “Can I have something to drink, Momma?”

  Before she could answer, Sugarbear hurried over with a grimy Bobby Jr. in his arms. “Hey guys, how ‘bout we head home now,” he said, shifting from foot to foot.

  Marie squinted up at him. “You okay, Bobby?”

  “Yeah, I just—” He jiggled the baby in his arm. “It’s hot, I need to get out of this sun.”

  “But I’m thirsty,” whined Lisa.

  Marie pushed herself up from her chair, glad for an excuse to leave. “There’s water in the car, Sweetpea. Let’s go.”

  Bobby packed the kids off to the car while Marie rushed through goodbyes and grabbed their casserole. It was still half full, she noticed. They were leaving pretty early. But they weren’t the only ones: as they walked out to the parking lot, she saw Lavinia Hart mount her broomstick and fly away.

  * * *

  Lavinia prowled about her penthouse, unsure of what to do with all her newfound energy. Since coming home from the picnic, she’d already run an easy 20 miles on her treadmill and devoured all the meat in her freezer. Meatcicles, why hadn’t anyone ever thought of this before?

  She licked a paw and sent it back to smooth down her fur. She shouldn’t have blown it dry after her shower. Force of habit. Now she looked like she was trying to puff her hair up into a bombastic male mane. She had no need for such theatrics. Better to be the sleek huntress, the one you admired for its beauty, and only realized was dangerous when its teeth were already at your throat.

  If only usurp
ing Franzen Enterprises could be that easy. But hunting down their CEO would only land her in jail, or in keeping with her visualization, the zoo.

  No, she needed a real plan. Her thinking was always clearest when she was in motion, so she went down to the complex spa for a swim. With a rush of delight, she slipped into the empty pool, grateful for solitude. She swam almost until close, relishing the sure, swift power of her legs pulling her muscular body forward in the water. She was mindful of the time, however. She pulled herself out of the water and shook her fur dry, slinking back up to her penthouse before Danny the lecherous night watchman came on duty. He sometimes took it upon himself to “patrol” the pool—for resident safety, he said. Right now she didn’t want any contact with people to break her powerful trance.

  Upstairs again, she dropped to all fours and sauntered into her living room, leaving damp pawprints in her wake. Her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows was sleek, sharp against the darkness outside. No, she couldn’t let this go to waste. She padded closer to the window, squinting through it to look at the traffic below. She rose to her hind legs, pressed her front paws against the window and purred. Her eyesight was astounding now! A taxi stopped at a red light, and she could see all the car’s detailing. She could even see the passengers inside. A man looked up at her through the rear window of the cab. He turned to someone else, and both men twisted to look in her direction, finally rolling down their windows and poking their heads out.

  Lavinia gasped and crossed her front paws over her chest.

  Someone on the sidewalk stopped, and the men in the taxi laughed and pointed up at her window. The pedestrian looked up—and grinned.

  She jumped back from the glass with a yelp. What did she look like to them? She’d been wearing her blue Dior sundress that morning, and she didn’t remember taking it off. Was she a giant wet cat in a ruined dress? A sopping wet woman in clinging blue silk? Or a stark naked woman standing in front of a window at night for the whole world to see?

  A low, guttural growl rattled her throat. She rushed forward and yanked the drapes closed. Shame mixed with adrenaline and morphed into rage. Vulnerability was her worst enemy—she would make it her prey. She would pounce on it and hold it down, feel it strain under her jaws. She closed her eyes and imagined herself annihilating weakness, its eyes rolling wildly as its hooves raked the ground.

  That was just a start, she thought, growling and stalking her living room. She would visualize herself into something even more powerful, something no man would dare to leer or laugh at. Ever again.

  * * *

  Ansel Evans looked into the mirror and grabbed at his head and thorax, trying to feel a human form underneath. His shower had failed to wash off his insanity. Even his mother had heard it when she’d called. “Baby, you sick?” she’d asked, fretting over his raspy voice. She’d heard it! It was real.

  He flopped onto his couch with a jar of honey and a spoon. He was a wasp working in a nest of honeybees. Surely it was just a matter of time before they’d turn on him. Truth be told, he’d felt their hate brewing long before the picnic. Every layoff, every cutback, every degradation of worker’s rights—the news had all been his to deliver.

  He dunked the spoon into the jar of honey and smashed it against his face. He tried again, opening his mandibles as wide as they would go. It still didn’t fit. With a sigh, he slumped over the dripping spoon and stuck his tongue into the honey.

  All this to please Lavinia Hart. But to what end? He’d been a Director for eight years now, watching one imbecile after another get promoted to Vice President around him. Even that useless side of meat from Marketing was a VP now. And where was Ansel’s VP slot? Where was his recompense for a job well done, again and again? For all the dirty work done to prop up Lavinia Hart?

  He put down the honey and stood up, wings thrumming. He wasn’t going to be her patsy anymore. He was going to take his rightful place.

  Ansel paced back and forth in front of his couch. He’d strike before the colony rose up against him. He was a wasp, goddammit! He could destroy the whole hive if he wanted. Or he could take control of it by destroying the queen. Then, finally—the power he deserved.

  He hopped an angry little dance around his living room, buzzing his anger out through his feet and wings. He had to prepare. He had to be sharp, metaphorically; that’s what this was all about. The stinger of his mind had to be sharp, ready to fight the queen and assume his rightful place!

  He danced faster and faster, circling his couch, every part of him vibrating now. He must be sharp, sharp enough to bore into the queen, to penetrate her. He had to take his rightful place, take the queen. His whole body buzzed with desire.

  He stopped dancing abruptly and shook his head. No, it was all supposed to be about his mind. Sharpen your mind, he told himself, trying to still his quivering body. But his heart kept pounding and his stinger ached. And wasn’t mental preparation only half of a warrior’s readiness? Wasn’t physical preparation also necessary?

  I must be sharp.

  He sat down on the couch, stinger in hand.

  I must be sharp.

  He closed his eyes.

  It must be sharp.

  He leaned back and sharpened his stinger, each stroke bringing him closer to victory.

  * * *

  Marie thought she’d held it together pretty well the rest of the day, considering. Bobby had slept most of the afternoon, and the children had played with the neighbor kids. At dinner she’d forced herself to swallow the soup instead of straining the broth out through her baleen. But Bobby had been agitated. He’d rushed through the meal, and was now hustling the kids off to bed while she dunked her fins into the dishwater to wash up. That was his way, he wouldn’t say what was bothering him until the kids were in bed.

  She heard Bobby step into the kitchen behind her. “Honey,” he said to her back, “we need to talk.”

  He knows, she thought. He knows I’ve gone crazy, and he’s worried about the kids. She wrapped the dishtowel around her flippers to keep them from shaking.

  He turned her gently by the shoulders to face him. “Honey—”

  “Bobby, I know I’ve been a little out of it today but—”

  “Marie, I’m scared.” Creases were scored into the sugar under his eyes.

  She gulped. “You’re scared of me?”

  “What? No, why would I—honey, I think there’s something wrong with me.”

  She put down the towel and led him into the living room, teetering on her tail. “Tell me,” she said, pulling him down next to her on the couch.

  “Marie, honey, ever since the picnic today, I’ve been—I haven’t been right.” He scratched the back of his neck with a paw and looked at her miserably. “I’m seeing things.”

  “What kind of things?” she croaked.

  “Well, it’s—I see people differently. Like, not as people.”

  “Like how?” she said, hoping her eagerness sounded like empathy.

  “Well, little Bobby Jr. looks like a—like a sausage.”

  “A sausage?”

  “Yeah, like a plump little sausage.”

  Marie tried not to show the relief trickling through her. Crazy is better shared.

  “Not one of those wrinkly brown Jimmy Dean things,” he went on, “or those nasty, bloated sausages in a glass jar. No, he’s a healthy, pink, little sausage-man.”

  She nodded. She could see where he got that image.

  “And Lisa,” he said, “I kinda see her like Tinkerbell. You know, tiny and sweet, sugar and spice, but with a feisty side to her too.”

  Marie smiled. “She does have her moments.”

  Bobby shook his head firmly. “No, you don’t understand, this isn’t just how I imagine their personalities. It’s how I actually see them. Literally.” Sugar sifted onto his lap as he wrung his hands.

  “Honey, it’s not just you.” She put a flipper on his shoulder. “I’ve been seeing strange things too, since the picnic.” She t
old him about seeing her Honeypot and Sweetpea and the cloud of children flying around the park and Mr. Evans slithering over the ground and Ms. Hart flying off on her broom. The more lunacy she revealed to him, the more relieved he looked.

  He hugged her tight. “We’re not crazy! It’s not us; there’s something at that park.”

  “What, you mean like some kind of fumes? Toxic waste?” She looked into his shining, ursine face and he put a paw to her cheek. It felt too real to be an illusion.

  “I don’t know, Marie. Fumes should have worn off by now, and toxic waste—it wouldn’t be this fast. If only we knew—” His eyes flashed with an idea. “Lisa saw a sign at the park, by the lake,” he said.

  “What lake? I never saw a lake.”

  “I didn’t either, but that pack of Tasmanian devils ripped all through the park.” His mouth slanted into a tiny smile. “What you saw as butterflies, I saw as those Loony Tunes Tasmanian devils. Anyway, Lisa saw this sign and wanted me to come read it to her.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know,” he sighed. “I didn’t look, I just wanted to get out of there. But I’ll bet there was something at the lake.”

  They searched the internet for over an hour, looking for environmental reports, maps of outbreaks, any indication of suspicious activity at the park. Nothing came up.

  “We have to go out there,” said Bobby.

  “Honey, it’s the middle of the night. The kids are asleep, and the park’s probably closed anyway.”

  “We’ll stay in the car,” he said. “I just want to drive around it. The kids can sleep in the back.”

  “Look, maybe we should just go to the doctor tomorrow—”

  “And then what? Get—diagnosed? Let them lock us up in the loony bin and take our kids away?”